


Plait, Unplait

by MDJensen



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Athos just wants to be loved and cuddled and touched, Fluffy, Gen, SO FLUFFY, and luckily Aramis knows this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 09:49:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2577134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After taking a bad fall during a swordfight, Athos is banged up and dirty and generally miserable. Aramis has an unexpected idea about how to make him feel better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plait, Unplait

**Author's Note:**

> Still working on my sequel to _Winter, Late in Leaving_ , and the headspace I'm in now is definitely pre-series boys. I see this as being early in their friendship, during the period when Aramis and Porthos are still feeling out how to best take care of their new Athos.
> 
> Must shout out the poem that inspired the title. It's by Paul Celan, and published in Gehnadii Aigi's book _Child-and-rose_ as part of the pair titled _Two Epigraphs_ :
> 
>  
> 
> _...And_  
>  _Veronica's Hair, even here-- I plaited,_  
>  _unplaited,_  
>  _I plait, unplait,_  
>  _I plait._

The ground had given way.

No one could have expected that. Aramis had never seen Athos lose his footing in a fight before, and surely today didn't tarnish that reputation-- his footing had rather lost _him_. And there he had gone. Disappeared down the side of the hill with nary a shout, but an unfortunate crunching sound of ribs cracking, going too fast and too wildly to right himself before rolling the entire length.

Once Aramis and Porthos had dispatched the rest of the bandits, they'd made their way-- backwards, on all fours-- to where Athos lay panting. He remained silent, brooding, even after catching his breath. Even after they had assured him that they finished the fight just fine without him.

Well, maybe that had been the wrong thing to say.

He was angry at himself, and he was hurt. Aramis, for his own part, was wearied by the whole ordeal and still a bit sickened by the moment that Athos had slipped and then vanished. Porthos seemed to feel the same. The decision to make camp early, before sunset even, was unanimous.

While Porthos and Athos built the fire, Aramis unpacked the essentials, then found a large, felled log and rolled it into camp to be their seating. Soon the fire came to life. Athos slumped before the log, too sore to sit without a back rest, too tired to afford even the small dignity of settling on a log instead of the ground.

They ate silently, Aramis and Porthos giving Aramis his space, sitting by the fire unspeaking, but side-by-side.

When dinner had ended, Aramis rose to collect the plates; Athos' was still nearly full. Aramis' heart gave a pang for their weary friend. Athos was not exceptionally small, nor exceptionally young, but in that moment he looked both: his face was pale, his eyes drooping. A collection of leaves and twigs decorated his hair, adding to his disheveled appearance.

That, at the very least, Aramis could help with. He set aside the plates and moved to sit on the log behind Athos' back. Wordlessly, he began to pick the debris from Athos' mane.

The voice, though not pleased, was too weak to be paid much mind. “What are you doing?”

“Removing this _tree_ from your hair, of course.”

Athos grunted. “That's unnecessary.”

“You'd rather continue to look like a woodland sprite?”

“An ornery, overgrown sprite, at that,” Porthos added, from his position near the fire.

“I have dealt with worse.”

“Perhaps,” Aramis sniffed, “but I think I've just found a spider. So _hold still_.”

This had its intended effect: Athos flinched and shut his mouth. There had been no spider. But before long Aramis did discover an ant clinging to one of the leaves, so he felt vindicated in his small untruth. This was a necessary task.

He kept at it. The leaves had mostly crumbled away, but some of the smaller twigs had twisted and caused knots; these were difficult to remove gently, but Aramis generally managed to, working slowly and methodically.

Beneath his hands, between his knees, Athos had begun to shiver. It was a warm night for autumn, and they were plenty near the fire. Aramis quickly came to understand that his friend wasn't really cold at all.

Athos could have died that day. Easily. The hill could have been steeper, or he could have hit his head on the way down; the bandit could even had moved faster, felled him in the split second between losing his footing and disappearing down the slope. Athos could have walked away with much worse than a cracked rib and hair full of rubble. Or he could have failed to walk away at all.

As he freed the final stick, Aramis realized that his hands were shaking as well. Needing a task to steady them, he decided to smooth the knots from Athos' hair; his locks had never been terribly well kept, and though they were clean now, they were still a bit of a disaster. He began at the ends and worked towards his scalp. Meanwhile the sun sank fully away.

Eventually Athos' hair was smooth and lay neatly, waving a bit where it overgrew, shining golden where the firelight hit it. But its owner had not stopped trembling. What followed next was nearly instinctive; Aramis was not entirely sure what possessed him to do so. And yet, it felt entirely natural.

He sectioned off a small amount of hair from the rest and divided it in three pieces. Then he set to work.

It didn't take long for the others to notice; Porthos was watching with befuddled fondness, and Athos himself soon went stiff.

“Aramis. Are you--” his voice was strangely high. “Are you _plaiting_ my hair?”

“I am,” Aramis replied firmly.

“May I ask why?”

“Just--” Aramis' felt his bravado falter slightly. “I suppose my hands needed something to do.”

“And this is what you chose?”

“I have a lot of sisters,” Aramis replied, sounding more honest and less haughty than he intended. “Besides, you're fresh out of twigs.”

Athos made a noise that wasn't quite approval but wasn't quite an objection, either; then he tilted his head forward. For all the world he seemed to be giving Aramis easier access.

“I'll stop if you tell me to,” Aramis told him, again sounding far more sincere than he'd meant to. But Athos said nothing.

Aramis felt his own body relaxing as he finished the first plait and moved on to a second. By the time he'd finished the last plait, the first few had slipped undone and Athos had stopped shaking as well. Aramis used his fingers to undo all the loosening plaits, intent on starting again.

When he glanced up at Porthos, he found the man grinning. Aramis frowned at him. “What?”

 _His eyes are closed_ , Porthos mouthed. To illustrate, he shut his own and tilted his head a bit sideways.

 _Is he asleep?_ Aramis mouthed back, copying his silent communication. Porthos looked Athos up and down for a moment, then nodded.

A swell of affection rose, warm, in Aramis' belly, and he combed his whole hand down the length of Athos' hair. In his sleep, Athos shuddered lightly. He tipped a bit further to one side, his head coming to rest on Aramis' knee.

Porthos pushed to his feet and came to them silently. He spread his cloak over Athos' lap; Athos huffed gently, and Aramis worked his fingers back into the man's hair. “We're here,” he murmured, beginning to plait again. “You're safe now.”

Porthos had settled beside him on the log. “Should we lay 'im down?” he whispered.

Aramis considered that. “His neck may ache tomorrow, but this will be better for his ribs.”

“An' knowin' 'im, 'e might not get back to sleep.”

“True.” Aramis wasn't bothering to keep the sections of hair neat and patterned any longer, just letting his fingers work aimlessly through the tresses that were warm now from so long spent before the fire. “Go to sleep, Porthos. I'll take first watch.”

“No complaints,” Porthos replied softly. “Your leg gonna go numb?”

“Quite possibly.”

Porthos smirked. “You care?”

“Not really.”

Smirk fading into a sleepy smile, Porthos got up, stoked the fire, then settled himself on the ground not far from Athos' legs. The noise of this caused Athos to stir. Aramis moved his hands to the man's shoulders and held them securely, until he sank into sleep once again. Porthos reached out an gave Athos' ankle an apologetic rub.

“Wake me halfway, then?” Porthos muttered, already sounding groggy.

“Mm,” Aramis replied absently, beginning to plait once more.


End file.
